The Inventory

She held me in her arms, cradled my head
against her breast, and in love’s dotage fell
to tallying gray hairs, my belly’s spread,
the stains of age and weather that foretell
decrepitude, my crooked back and knee ...
Were I a soldier from the battlefield
and she a nurse, would she relentlessly
thus catalog my scars while I lie peeled
beneath her gaze?
                                 Oh, show some pity, Love,
and if you have it in you, summon up
that buoyancy in face of mortal pain
that comforts cowards and makes heroes of
strong women. When you hoist my meager cup,
feign pleasure in the spirits that remain.